


Dish of the Day

by Oriberry



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bellle's not cut out for a career in catering, Dark Castle, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:19:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7098727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oriberry/pseuds/Oriberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark One's maid is bored and decides to try her hand at cooking - after all how hard can it be? Unfortunately things don't work out quite as Belle planned...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dish of the Day

Belle is cosily ensconced in the library, feet tucked up beneath her, lost in her thoughts. She’s been in the Dark Castle now for six months and Belle feels she is starting to get the measure of the skittish and capricious Rumplestiltskin. She’s long lost any fear of him, knows he would never harm her, and recently she has found it amusing to gently test the boundaries he’s methodically and systematically put in place, to see just how far she can go before he scuttles nervously away from her. 

She suspects the sorcerer is starting to enjoy their skirmishes, their battle of wits, almost as much as she does. She loves seeing the gleam in his amber eyes when he silently acknowledges she’s scored a verbal hit. She loves even more that he enjoys her intelligence and treats her as an equal - almost - despite his insistence on using dearie when addressing her. He doesn’t fool her, not one jot. Belle recognises this verbal tic for what it is; an ill-disguised defence mechanism when he thinks he’s letting her in, letting her get too close, under his skin. 

But, despite this growing sense of contentment, of belonging (and really this is a novel feeling for her for even at home in Avonlea, she always felt like an outsider, a decorative ornament hanging from her father’s or Gaston’s arm), there is still something gnawing away at Belle. 

To put it bluntly, she is bored. Her daily chores, never challenging even in the early, darker days spent delicately dancing around each other whilst learning how to co-exist, now involve little more than light dusting and - if Rumplestiltskin is in a good mood - polishing the castle’s precious, intriguing collection of artefacts. 

It’s hardly enough to keep an elderly housekeeper occupied let alone someone as active, as quick, as Belle. She once asked tentatively if he needed an assistant for his spell making but his only response had been a long, hard stare followed by a flamboyant hand twirl in the direction of the door (oh but that had irked her, that taunting, flippant dismissal). She hasn’t asked again - she has some pride, after all - but really, if she can’t fill her days more effectively, she is sure her brain will shrivel and die. 

Sighing, Belle glances up from her book to look at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. It is past four o’clock and she knows better than to keep Rumpelstiltskin waiting for his afternoon tea. He is many things, oh isn’t he just, but patient is not one of them.

As she waits for the kettle to come to the boil, Belle mulls over what else she might do to occupy her days. Casting her eyes around the spotless kitchen she has a sudden flash of inspiration. To date, her culinary efforts have been, well somewhat lacklustre, and that’s putting a gloss on it. If she’s honest with herself, everything she’s made to date tastes of grit and sawdust. 

She thinks back to last night’s meal, a triumph of lumpy mashed potato and burnt beef, and the dramatic shudder that accompanied Rumplestiltskin’s every mouthful. The evening had concluded with him, ever the showman, prodding suspiciously at her offering, and asking with feigned resignation whether she was actually trying to poison him. (Belle had muttered wistfully that that could be arranged.)

She chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip. She’s seen the shelves of cookery books in the library; she’s even flicked through a few of them. Surely one of them will meet her needs. She’s not in the market for anything too testing at this stage although, ever confident, she has no doubt that with time she will become an accomplished cook. After all, how hard can it really be? 

Monday: chicken pie

Belle prods forlornly at an unidentifiable congealed mass in the roasting dish. She’s an optimist by nature but even she has to admit this is not going well. Making a pie had seemed like such a good idea this morning. According to the recipe book she’s finally settled on, pies are one of the easiest things to make. The author implies any simpleton can make pastry.

Yet nothing has gone according to plan. Despite her best efforts, the chicken is burnt on the outside yet bloody within. The pastry is an unpleasant shade of grey and off-puttingly sticky. The sauce, which she is now stirring disconsolately, has an unappealing scum on top (but at least this conceals from prying eyes the lumps of flour that just refuse to dissolve). None of the lunch elements separately speak of promise but combined together, it’s the pie from hell. 

Sighing, Belle wipes a thick trail of flour and splashes of milk from the page she has been consulting. Which reveals another section of instructions. Ah. It seems there are some extra steps she’s missed that may, um, help explain the horrors rapidly unfolding in front of her. Belle visibly wilts. This is not good, not good at all.

Two floors up and eight rooms away, an acrid aroma begins to assail Rumplestiltskin’s nostrils as he sits at his spinning wheel. He sniffs the air suspiciously. Chargrilled – what the hell is it? Burnt – flesh perhaps? He huffs. It isn’t hard to put two and two together. Belle had had her nose buried in a new book this morning, she’s been mysteriously absent all morning and now there are malignant odours assaulting his senses. No doubt his dratted maid is creating another culinary abomination down in the bowels of the Dark Castle. He raises his eyes to heaven.

Thirty minutes later, Rumplestiltskin’s curiosity is piqued and his stomach’s rumbling. Where on earth is she? Impatiently he poofs into the kitchen just in time to catch his maid on her knees in front of the oven, muttering to herself. He thinks he picks out “Damn and blast” and “Stupid idiot author” but he could be wrong. 

At any other time he might allow himself just a second or two to admire her – pert posterior. However, he cannot help but notice that the kitchen, usually pristine, looks like it’s been the victim of a large-scale chemistry experiment gone horribly wrong. (And he should know.) There are trickles of whitish gloop running down the side of the oven door and pooling on the floor. Flour bags appear to have been detonated, as every work surface is coated in a thin layer of powder that will take weeks to remove. There are a lot of feathers liberally scattered around the room that, if he is not mistaken, once adorned one of the village cockerels. Several are snagged in Belle’s hair. Rumplestiltskin’s fingers twitch nervously. He has to restrain himself from plucking them out. 

“What in the name of all that’s holy is going on here?” 

Belle jumps guiltily (she still hasn’t schooled herself to not be caught unawares by his sudden appearances). She puffs a strand of hair out of her eyes, counts to five, slowly, and gets to her feet. 

“I found a selection of cookery books in the library and thought it’d be fun to expand my repertoire.”

Rumplestiltskin snorts at this; to date the only thing Belle has mastered is toasting bread and even that doesn’t come with a 100 percent success rate. “I wanted us to try a new dish every day this week.” She chances a peek to assess his response. Nothing. He’s looking at her with a quizzical expression in those golden eyes of his and she knows him too well to think he’ll let it go without comment. Sure enough, (he is nothing if not predictable), “Is it me or is there something foul in that oven?” He smirks at his own pun which she thinks is very poor form.

Belle rolls her eyes. With as much dignity as she can muster, given her state of disarray, she points at the bubbling mess. “That is our lunch. It’s a chicken pie with a white wine sauce. And you will eat it and like it.” Belle gives Rumplestiltskin a “Go on, I dare you” look and for once he decides to quit whilst he’s ahead. 

No longer able to resist, he gently pulls a feather from her hair and wipes a patch of flour from her cheek. Before she can react, there’s a puff of purple smoke and he and the pie disappear. Belle brushes her fingers against her face, still able to feel his touch. She is sure it’s the heat that makes her face tingle, and then follows her master up the stone steps, carefully carrying a bottle of wine that she hopes will help numb the senses. She suspect they are going to need all the help they can get. 

Tuesday: Fish soup

Belle has given quite a lot of thought overnight as to what her second recipe of the week will be. She shudders. She never wants to set eyes on a chicken again and thinks it might be sensible to give meat a wide berth until the memory of yesterday’s fiasco fades a little. She doesn’t normally approve of magic but last night was one time she’d have appreciated Rumplestiltskin conjuring up a cleaning spell. It had taken her hours to return the kitchen to its normal state and her knees are still sore. He could at least have offered, she thinks dourly.

Fish, she decides, is the answer. There are lots of plump bronze-scaled fish populating the castle’s lake; she’s whiled away many an afternoon sitting in the shade by the water with her latest book when safe in the knowledge that Rumplestiltskin is away for the day, doing whatever it is that malevolent imps do. 

It’s a gorgeous day, a deep blue sky, foliage a myriad of reds and golds. Yes, she can happily spend an hour or so catching today’s lunch. And if by happy coincidence it keeps her out of the Dark One’s way, then all the better. 

So by mid-morning Belle is seated by the lake primed for action. It’s already warm and the fish are fat and lazy – this, she declares to herself, is going to be a doddle. After only a few minutes she feels a firm tug on the line and after a tussle that leaves her panting for breath, she hauls her catch up on to dry land. One glance makes her suddenly doubt whether this is in fact a good idea. The fish is considerably larger and livelier than she’d expected. There are lots of teeth, all of them sharp and overly pointy. There are spines, also sharp and pointy. She hopes it is going to taste better than it looks.

Giving herself a mental shrug, she trots up the path to the kitchen and before she can lose her nerve sets to gutting their lunch. The first incision to the fish has her reeling – she’s never smelled anything like it. Choking and looking for something to cover her mouth and nose with, Belle inadvertently places her hand on the work surface. Yelping she looks at her hand. Spines protrude from her thumb. The dizziness and nausea kick in almost immediately. 

Rumplestiltskin is lurking up in his tower workshop, shaking a vial filled with thousands of tiny shimmering particles, trying not think about Belle - ridiculous child - and what horrors she might inflict on him today. He supposes it cannot be worse than yesterday’s horror. Can it? His head snaps up. Was that a cry of pain? Ye Gods, he leaves her alone for one hour and…

Belle’s barely started to call Rumplestiltskin’s name before a sulphurous odour starts to mingle with the already toxic fumes circulating the room. As if she can feel any more unwell, she thinks glumly. 

“Oh dearie, dearie me. What have we here?” trills a voice behind her. When she doesn’t reply Rumplestiltskin peers more closely at her. She’s starting to sway and his usual reticence is swatted aside as he moves like lightening to snake his hands around her waist to steady her. 

One quick tug and the spines are out, a flash of magic healing the wound a second later. A flick of the wrist sees the fish and its entrails vanish to – well hopefully a six feet deep pit in the heart of the Enchanted Forest. A second swirl transports the pair to the great hall. Rumplestiltskin places her gently on her chair, where she flops listlessly, before he sits down next to her. 

“Ah, there we are dearie, you’re looking a little less green around the - gills.” (He smirks to himself at his play on words.) She’s still too wobbly to acknowledge the pun, simply nodding weakly and thinking that fish too is off the menu from now on. He’s relieved to see after a minute or so some of her colour returning. His first task this afternoon, the mage reflects darkly, will be to replace those fishy terrors with harmless minnows. 

Wednesday: Vegetarian delights

Belle has to admit that in her quest for culinary excellence to date, she hasn’t exactly covered herself in glory. She is sure she can smell fish on her skin. And her hand is still a little sore. But Belle is not down and out quite yet. She just needs to recalibrate her short-term goals.

Consulting the recipe book, she quickly flicks past the chapters extolling the virtues of protein, grimacing as she does so. Been there, failed at that, she thinks bitterly. No, what Rumplestiltskin needs is to up his vegetable consumption. He’s a picky eater, happy to skip meals, and although he does have a rather – fine – um, behind, he could do with a bit more flesh on his bones. She muses happily for a moment on just how snugly he fits his trousers before pulling herself together. 

And what could possibly be difficult about roasting a few vegetables, picked fresh that morning from the garden, and creating a tasty terrine? No meat to transform into rubbery gristle, no fish to wrestle with. Oh yes, this will redeem her in Rumplestiltskin’s eyes. He will see that her efforts deserve more than a snarky quip or two across the table and dramatic eye rolling. 

A quick rootle through one of the small outhouses and Belle has all the tools she needs. A trug to collect her pickings and a sun hat to keep the heat off her face and she’s all set. Set that is, until she reaches the plot of land where the vegetables grow. She pauses; in her experience, the local market produce has always been smaller, cleaner and, well, recognisable. The motley selection of vegetables in front of her are misshapen, weirdly coloured and some of them even appear to be growing as she watches. 

Bracing herself, Belle leans into the patch, grasps her trowel and starts to cut away at the roots of the plump looking - pumpkin, is it? - half buried in the soil. Dear God, it’s screaming. Loudly. Her heart beating faster, she pauses for a second before trying again. The screams double in volume. Other plants start joining in. It’s deafening. 

Belle finds herself praying, pleading with the Gods that Rumplestiltskin is out on one of his deals. He hadn’t joined her for breakfast after all, although of course he might just have been avoiding her. She promises to anyone who’ll listen that she’ll do anything, anything at all if only the screaming will stop. 

“Anything, dearie, anything?” Belle squeaks, she can’t help herself. Oh dear Lord, has she really said that out loud. “I may just – hold – you to that” whispers a voice over her shoulder, breath ghosting her cheek. He’s so close to her she can feel heat radiating from his chest. Her heartbeat starts to speed up and she’s worried he can hear it pounding. This unexpected physical response to his proximity renders her momentarily speechless, too busy trying to process her own body’s response to his - threat, a promise? 

Luckily Rumplestiltskin has reverted to his usual speaking voice, all trills and mockery, and this buys her the time she needs to gather her scattered wits. 

“Now what on earth are you doing out here, why the infernal noise?” Ah yes, definitely back to normal. Belle grits her teeth. 

“They don’t seem keen to be picked.” 

Rumplestiltskin hums gently as he waves a hand nonchalantly over the now silent (curse them) vegetables. “That’s because they’re not for eating. They’re for my potions when I want to scare people. Dark Castle, dark gardens, dark things growing, dearie.” 

He’s still too close for comfort but suddenly he takes a step further away from her, giving her the space she needs to escape. She stalks up the garden path, with the Dark One trailing behind her, still snickering. Plain boiled rice and an awkward conversation await.

Thursday: sponge pudding

Desserts are the way forward. Rumplestiltskin is always rummaging through the kitchen pantry, when he thinks she isn’t looking, foraging for tasty treats; she sometimes catches him with traces of icing sugar still coating his lips…Focus. Focus. Sponge puddings. According to the author of her book, any fool (she’s paraphrasing here) can knock up a sponge pudding. A five year old could do it. It just needs careful measuring of the ingredients and an eye on the clock... 

The page of her book ruffles in a sudden breeze, alerting her to Rumplestiltskin magicking his way down to check on her progress. 

“So dearie,” he mutters whilst rapidly swirling his finger around the mixing bowl scooping out the remains of the raw sponge mixture (he thinks she can’t see him). Belle is momentarily distracted as he dips his finger into his mouth and sucks on it. Dear Lord, that should not be allowed, Belle thinks to herself before a flick of his hand very close to her nose brings her back to the land of the living. 

“Are you planning on serving up something edible today or should we have a doctor on standby just in case?” he snarks. 

Belle gives him a death stare and bats his hand away from the bowl. And tries not to let her mouth curve upwards. “This, Rumple, is going to make you eat your words. This is a pudding any chef worth their salt would be proud of.”

They stare at each other for just a beat too long as both register her new nickname before she makes her next move: “Spotted dick.” And checkmate. A choking noise greets her. Rumplestiltskin’s face has turned an interesting hue; if she didn’t know better she’d think he is blushing. A swirl of smoke and he’s gone. Oh well, she really doesn’t need the distraction. She peers through the oven door; thirty minutes to go and it’ll be ready which just gives her enough time to finish the latest chapter of her current book. Excellent.

xoxox

“What the …?” Belle realises, too late, that the kitchen is filling with smoke that’s pouring from the oven. Oh. No. Not the pudding. Please not the pudding. Belle yanks open the oven door, the smoke stinging her eyes and making her splutter. She crosses her fingers as she places the dish on the hob, trying to ignore the blackened crust festooned with shrivelled currants that now resemble mouse droppings. It looks mightily unappetising. She needs to come up with a plan, sharpish, to explain this away as she doesn’t think she can face Rumplestiltskin’s impish mocking when he sees this latest sorry offering.

Rumplestiltskin is drumming his fingers impatiently on the dining table. Oh how he loves puddings, especially when they’re accompanied with rich, creamy custard. He hears the sound of her shoes tip tapping across the hallway - ah, here she is - and looks over to watch her progress. If he didn’t know better he’d say his Belle looks a bit shifty. She’s displaying an intense interest in the floor and her eyes slide away from his a little too quickly as she places a covered tureen in front of him. And then she rests her hand on his shoulder.

He’s so distracted by her proximity to him, her scent, her hair falling against his cheek, the warmth of her hand and how it feels through his thin silk shirt that his eyes flutter shut for a moment and Belle is able by cunning sleight of hand to serve him up a portion of dessert and pour the custard before he notices what she’s doing. 

She smiles nervously, biting her lip, and waves her hands to indicate he should tuck in. Finding himself momentarily distracted by how how plump and red her mouth looks he takes a bite and - what the bloody hell. His tongue is glued to the roof of his mouth, the custard more effective than any silencing spell he’s created. As he gurgles and glares darkly at her, Belle decides to beat a hasty retreat to the safety of her room. She’s not looking forward to this evening. It’s going to be awkward. 

Friday: vodka jelly

The Dark One side-eyes his maid over the rim of his steaming cup of tea Friday morning. He thinks she’s the very picture of innocence as she turns another page of the cookery book, and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. How delicious she looks. If only her food could be described in similar terms. He sighs internally before turning to Belle and dryly asking what delectable treat she has in store today. 

She raises her eyes to his and she feels her heart give a traitorous flutter under his close scrutiny. Just when has he started to have that effect on her, she muses before giving herself a mental shake. She looks at him in what she hopes is a cool, collected way. “I’m looking for a recipe that doesn’t actually require any cooking. How do you feel about jelly?” A moment’s beat, then Rumplestiltskin closes his eyes, leans back in his seat and smiles. Not even Belle can wreak havoc preparing a jelly, surely?

Rummaging around in the pantry later that morning Belle is looking for something to flavour the jelly with. She thinks of fresh fruit at first but isn’t entirely convinced these won’t be enchanted. No, a nice fruit cordial will do the trick. She seems to recall a shelf of dusty bottles towards the back of the cupboard. Yes, here they are. She mulls over her options. There’s a flask containing a lemony liquid, another beside it that when uncorked smells of roses; too sickly. The one that really catches her eye is a vial containing a rich, unctuous-looking deep purple syrup. Oh yes, that will do nicely, thank you. 

Belle sloshes a healthy measure into the liquid, and gives it a good stir before leaving it to set. She decides that rather than trudge upstairs, it makes more sense to stay here, put her feet up and resume reading her novel. As the sun starts to drop lower, the kitchen’s filled with a beautiful golden glow. Feeling mellow, Belle thinks she may as well treat herself to a sip of the cordial, it will after all only go off if left opened and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

Rumplestiltskin is feeling peckish. It’s way past supper time, yet silence reigns. He tenses, sending out magical tendrils to tease out his maid. She isn’t in the library. She isn’t outside. How very odd. Tamping down a faint sense of alarm, he poofs himself down to the kitchen, the imp in him hoping to catch Belle unawares; he’d bet his last bale of straw on her having her nose in that book of hers. Instead, she is resting her head on the table, hair shielding her face from him. She appears to be asleep. This is going to be amusing. 

Rumplestiltskin pads quietly over to Belle, and cannot resist lifting her hair from her face (so soft her hair, so so soft) before whispering boo in her ear. A hand flaps weakly in his direction, trying to swat away the irritation. His “Wakey wakey dearie” is met by a groan, and then a giggle that does funny things to his stomach. Belle rolls round in her chair, trying to focus on her tormenter. Failing miserably, she giggles again, or rather snorts (he thinks the sound endearing if a tad unlady-like). “Rumple Bumple, there you are.” 

Oh. Dear. Lord. She’s not just tipsy, she is roaring drunk. She’s struggling to sit upright but ends up flopping like a rag doll against Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder. Instinct makes him want to back right away from her but if he does she’ll end up on the floor. He holds her gently around her waist to keep her upright but to his alarm, he finds she’s turned into a human octopus, hands everywhere, her head against his chest. His heart leaps into his mouth. Now she’s running her hands up and down his arms, muttering something about how she loves him in silk and leather. Perhaps he’s misheard her? The girl has clearly lost her wits. 

For a moment, Rumplestiltskin allows himself the luxury of closing his eyes and enjoying the sensation of being hugged, of human contact. He hums with pleasure. It’s, well it’s blissful. He could perhaps just stay a little longer, what harm would it do? And then he feels her roving hands suddenly move and - did she – did she just squeeze his ass? 

His eyes snap open. This cannot happen. He can’t take advantage of his maid, however tactile she is. She’ll hate him when she remembers. He places her hands on the table (she grumbles her displeasure) and dithers, fingers twitching anxiously: should he leave her to sleep it off or magic her up to her room? 

In the end he goes for the safe, cowardly option, conjuring up a soft blue cushion stuffed with the finest goose down that – purely coincidentally - matches her eyes and gently lifts her head before resting it back down. She mumbles her thanks and he’s relieved to see she’s starting to doze off. A fluffy woollen blanket now rests around her shoulders. He resists the temptation to card his fingers through her hair; to push it off her face and instead he stands up with a huff. He’ll let her sleep it off, and oh how he is looking forward to seeing her the next day. He is never going to let her live this down.

Satisfied she’s comfortable, he’s about to leave when a thought strikes him. He peers in the pantry and removes the jelly, and as a second thought, grabs the vial from the table. There’s some liquid left and he sniffs it out of curiosity; dear god, it’s practically neat alcohol. And smiles. What might render his maid unconscious will barely have any effect on him. A little tipple won’t do any harm. It might even help him forget how she felt leaning against him. 

Saturday: dry toast

Belle’s head is so, so heavy. Her eyes feel glued together. 

Where did the bricks weighing her down come from? 

Is she in fact dead?

All of these are questions Belle would pose if she could string a coherent sentence together. Instead what comes out of her mouth is “Ungh, urgh, ugh.”

“And how are we feeling this morning, dearie? Perky? Ready for a full day’s dusting of the ballroom?” Rumple is seated opposite her, fingers steepled, an eyebrow quirked, and his eyes betraying more than a hint of amusement. Belle peers blearily at him. Why is he shouting? Why does he look so – insufferably smug? 

Sometimes, she thinks wistfully, she could just slap him. Or kiss him. Oops, perhaps she is still a little under the influence, she seems to have lost her ability to self-censor her thoughts. She risks another glance at him and catches a smirk just before he manages to straighten his expression. 

“ ‘m ill.” Yes. That’s how to do it, stick to words of one syllable, no need to complicate things by using whole sentences. Rumplestiltskin hums not unsympathetically. That liqueur could have felled an ox, let alone a delicate little thing like Belle. Deciding to take pity on her, he clears his throat, leans forward and whispers “Try a little dry toast. It’ll help settle your stomach more effectively than any potion I can offer you.” 

Listlessly, Belle tries to get to her feet but has to admit defeat. A swarm of bees seem to have taken up residence in her head. An angry swarm if the buzzing does not deceive her. Rumple mock huffs, before a click of his fingers places four thick slices of freshly baked bread in the oven. A silver dish of butter and a pot of strawberry jam appear on the table. He coaxes her into nibbling on a crust and when she braves a glance at him, she is reassured to see a genuine smile quirk his lips. 

And then with a gasp that has her jerking upright in her chair, a memory of last night hits her. No, she didn’t, she didn’t tell him she liked his leather trousers. And the silk shirts. Did she – squeeze his bottom? He’s watching her intently, and is that heat in his eyes? Oh Gods. She did. She did. She groans and Rumplestiltskin’s smile grows wider still. She’ll have to run away and spend the rest of her days hiding out in a cave.

Then she tamps down the panic and opts for attack as the best form of defence. “Rumple, how did I end up wrapped up in a blanket and resting on a cush….”? And yes, it’s worked. A trace of smoke lingers but of her master there’s no sign. She knows it’s a temporary victory and she’s only putting off the inevitable but it’s a victory nonetheless. She thinks she’ll spend the rest of the day recuperating in her room.

Sunday: stewed apples 

Belle’s feeling human again, and is keen to avoid Rumplestiltskin, for reasons, and the emotions he may stir in her, so has ventured outside. She’s dragged a ladder out to the orchard, where the fruit trees are laden with apples, pears and peaches. Her mouth waters in anticipation. She assesses her options and decides on apples (peaches are too peachy, pears are too bitty). She eyes the tree closest to her and rests the ladder up against the trunk. She quickly (and somewhat guiltily) checks around her. No sign of the Dark One, which is a good thing; he will not approve of her fruit picking endeavours. He thinks her clumsy, likes to mock her for her poor coordination, but really, that vase in the hallway was so ugly she’d done him a favour by knocking it off its pedestal. And despite his complaints, he’s still using that chipped cup. 

Right, up we go. The ladder’s holding, the apples are enticingly just within reach if she stands on tiptoe. Balancing her trug in one hand whilst holding the top of the ladder Belle reaches for a particularly tempting cluster of fruit. Feeling something brush against her hand she glances down. It’s a wasp, looking agitated. Her instinct is to panic; she’s had a phobia of being stung since childhood, and starts to wave her hand in the air, trying to dislodge it. 

And then she feels her shoe come loose and suddenly she’s off balance and flailing. She knows she leaning too far backwards, that she’s falling, falling, falling. “R…” and then she lands on something soft yet firm that emits an oomph. 

“R-rumple”? 

“Well who else do you think it would be dearie. Your knight in shining armour? Gaston perhaps?” 

Belle humphs. Really, we’re lying here like this and he still finds the time to snark at her. She feels infinitely safe wrapped in his arms but she only has a second to appreciate his firm torso and his surprisingly strong arms before she is lifted to her feet. Rumplestiltskin’s busy running his eyes over her, assessing her injuries. Caught up in his concerns for her welfare, he has forgotten he’s still holding her hands, subconsciously brushing his fingers up and down her wrist, and making soothing noises as he does so.

Belle keeps still, not wanting to break the spell between them. He’s breathing too hard, as if he’s run a long way, and his eyes are glowing, hard and fierce. She can feel his breath gusting her hair. A swift pull towards him, a hug that has them up tight against each other, and then, with a sharp gasp, he lets her go so quickly she stumbles. With space again between them, he regains his equilibrium although the fact he is rubbing his thumb and forefinger together over and over again tells her he is not so in control as he’d like her to think.

Belle stoops to recapture her apples but as she does so, Rumplestiltskin clears his throat. “I think, dearie, that we can do without dessert this evening” and the next second, she finds herself back up in the library, in front of the fire, her favourite tome on the floor.

Belle muses, as she looks at the cup of steaming tea by her side and a selection of different breads and jams to choose from, that a conversation with Rumplestiltskin about his constant disappearing act is long over-due.

A spread fit for a queen

Next day’s breakfast is a buttock-clenchingly awkward affair. Belle quickly abandons her attempts at conversation when Rumple, looking everywhere but at her, chews determinedly on his toast, creating abstract patterns with the crumbs. He is almost vibrating with tension. Tentatively, Belle touches his wrist; she can feel his pulse racing. With a sharp intake of breath he vanishes, to where heaven knows, leaving her alone, deeply irritated and not a little non-plussed about what her next step should be. 

Cross at herself for not having had the courage of her convictions and frustrated beyond belief by Rumplestiltskin being so easily spooked, Belle gives him three days, during which there is neither sound nor sight of the master of the house, before she eventually runs him to ground in his lair, determined to provoke some sort of reaction out of him. Even if it lands her in the dungeon. 

He refuses to look at her, turning his face away from her, staying in the shadows. He’s all darkness and light, shade and angles. And so beautiful. Funny how she’s never really appreciated this until now. Perhaps it’s the way the sun filtering through the narrow windows makes his skin shimmer and burnishing his hair to a coppery glow. 

“Rumple?” She hears how breathy she sounds. She tries to tamp down her nerves and counts to three. “I’m sorry I’ve put you to so much trouble this week and I’m grateful you’ve been here to pick up the pieces, truly I am”. (A snort the only indication he’s paying attention.)

“So from now on I’m going to leave it up to the castle to decide what we have for our meals. I think I’m going to steer clear of the kitchen unless I’m making a pot of tea.”

“Really, dearie?” There’s no detectable movement, he’s completely still, his voice low and sarcastic.

“Well, there’s no need for that tone. I was only trying my best.” Sharper than she’d intended and she kicks herself for letting him get to her so quickly.

“Oh ho. Let me tell you I’ve let you get off very lightly, considering the horrors you’ve inflicted on me. I’ve turned people into snails for less.” But this time at least there’s some movement, a sign he’s paying attention - a flick of the wrist, subtle but definitely there, to emphasise his point. 

“Or perhaps you’d rather I turned you into a toad, hmm, and let you fight it out with the fish in the lake?” There’s a smile in his voice though, an upwards lilt. He’s moved a little closer to her, head tilted to one side like a bird. Studying her.

And in a sudden flash of intuition, she realises she’s snared him, that perhaps he’s hers. She closes the gap between them.

“Rumple! That’s not nice. To punish you perhaps I shouldn’t give up so easily. In fact I spotted some interesting shellfish recipes and I’m sure I can find some clams in the lake…” 

Now it’s Rumplestiltskin’s turn to take a step closer.

“Now my d…ear, no need to be so rash. How about we come to a compromise? You continue to work on your baking skills and in turn I’ll eat without complaint anything you produce?”

They are now within touching distance. They hold each other’s gaze, and she notes how he swallows, whilst waiting for her answer.

“Deal.” 

She swishes out of the room and he’s unsure if he’s disappointed or relieved. Either way, he knows he’s been played but somehow he doesn’t mind. Belle is happy with her victory, and if she’s happy, then so is he.

xoxox

What a difference a month makes. There has been a vast improvement in Belle’s relationship with the Dark One. She’s taken to sitting on the floor next to him as he spins (he’s conjured up a huge golden cushion and selection of silk and cotton throws to keep her warm) and when she’s feeling particularly bold she’ll rest her head against his leg (she loves hearing the hitch in his breath when she does so). 

Occasionally he responds by playing with the ribbons she’s started to strategically place in her hair or twirling a ringlet around his fingers. One evening she even manages to bake a batch of biscuits that if not perfect at least don’t taste of charcoal. Rumplestiltskin pops one in his mouth and holds her gaze for just long enough before chewing to make her blush. A look like that really should be against the law. 

She’s almost happy to continue in this vein but she knows deep down that she wants more and that she will have to be the one to make the first move; Rumple can out wait anyone; and he’s risk averse. No, if she waits for him to declare the feelings she knows he has for her, she’ll be waiting forever. And life is too short. 

She hasn’t seen him all day and decides to start her search for him in the great hall. Flinging open the doors, she gasps. There isn’t a spare inch of table surface to be seen. There are pyramids of succulent fruit, plates of golden pastries, as many different type of egg dishes as you could wish for, and if her nose doesn’t lie, smoked kippers. Her mouth waters and she tiptoes forwards, wondering whether there are desserts there too when a voice behind her makes her jump. Damn. He still gets her every time.

Rumplestiltskin sidles over to where she’s standing rooted to the spot, nervously twiddling his thumbs, the only sign that he’s uncertain as to how this gesture will be received. Her smile of delight gives him the courage he needs. He puts his hand on the small of her back and ushers her over to the tale and with a dramatic flourish, pulls her chair out for her. “Milady.” 

Suddenly feeling shy, Belle busies herself peeling a pear, conscious of Rumple’s gaze on her (she can feel the heat rising in her cheeks). A pause. A cough. “Erm, Belle?”Another pause. “Tell me why you had the sudden urge to take up a second career as chef?” 

Be brave, be brave. “If I don’t find more ways to pass my time, I’m going to go mad. I’m so grateful for the library, truly I am, but it’s not enough.” She nibbles on her lower lip. “There’s so much you do that I don’t understand. You vanish for days on end, you spend hours at a time creating magic, visiting far off lands. And me? I know I’m your caretaker, I know I could be a better maid. All I’m asking is that if you trust me, or can learn to trust me, you start to let me into your world a little.”

She gasps a little at her effrontery and looks to gauge his reaction: a swift upward glance from underneath her hair. He’s as inscrutable as ever but she can feel the tension radiating from him. He leans over and spears some cheese before chewing slowly and methodically. 

“So let me see if I’ve understood you correctly. You have the freedom to roam the castle, its gardens. You have tasks that allow you the time to read as much as you want. And yet you want more”. She nods. “You would learn my magical secrets. You would learn more about me.” Another pause. Belle can feel her heart pitter pattering. 

Rumplestiltskin leans towards her until his forehead is almost resting against hers. Belle is gusting tiny breaths, her eyes on his. She can smell his hair; it’s woody, spicy. Her stomach is tight with anticipation. 

“Oh my lovely inquisitive Belle. So fearless. Very well, I think perhaps you have earned the right to – expand your horizons a little.” His voice is deeper, less playful than usual. It does something to her insides. She risks another glance at him. His eyes are warm. There’s another pause and then he closes the gap between them and his lips brush against hers. Warm, soft, full of promise, a clear expression of intent.

“After all, I seem to recall a certain maid of mine promising she’d do anything if her prayers were answered. Which they were.” And then, a flick of the fingers makes the food vanish, and a swirl of purple smoke envelops them and whisks them to his tower. A giggle lingers in the air.


End file.
